


You Love Me?

by Nepenthene



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Character Study, Cookies, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Frigga is awesome, Marriage Proposal, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, P.S. Steve can't bake, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Rocket Launchers, SHIELD, Wakanda (Marvel), gentle hazing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26782909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepenthene/pseuds/Nepenthene
Summary: 1. *laughs hysterically*2. “Who doesn’t?”3. “I’m sorry.”4. “I know.” / *laughs nervously*5. “A horrible decision, really.”6. “YEET.”7. “Why?”
Relationships: Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Frigga | Freyja & Loki (Marvel), James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Kudos: 9





	1. *laughs hysterically*

This has been the worst day of Clint’s life. Possibly even the worst day ever in the history of the universe. And no, he’s not exaggerating. Not even a little.

First, there was that idiot that tried to take over Saint Paul, Minnesota at _six in the fucking morning_ with a stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. prototype that was a cross between a killer robot and the mother of all rocket launchers. (Like seriously, the midwest? All they’ve got is corn and empty space. But if we’re being honest, choice of location is the least of this guy’s problems.) That mission should’ve been a breeze. Waltz in, hit the bot with a couple of well-placed exploding arrows, and boom, call in the clean-up crews. (Get it? Boom? Exploding arrows? Heh.) Mission accomplished, new guy gets a raise. But the wannabe villain had a handy little device that disabled all the electronics apart from his own in a 150 foot radius, so that turned into four hours from hell without Clint’s special effect arrows _or_ his hearing aids. He almost got stepped on. Twice.

Then there was the mix-up at HQ (that he’s 3000% sure wasn’t as much of a mix-up as they made it out to be) that had him bouncing around to the offices of half a dozen different departments trying to fill out some missing paperwork, which they miraculously got a hold of  _ after _ he’d redone all of it. So _o_ _ kay, _ he’s the new guy, and  _ okay, _ he’d definitely do the same thing in their place, but c’mon. 

That was followed by a meeting with his handler that they gave him the wrong time for. Usually he’d just say ‘fuck it, I’m outta here’ and go get Starbucks or somethin’, but the guy is freakin’ _terrifying_ in his balding, blank smile sorta way. So he waited in Coulson’s office for three hours. By himself. And now he’s half an hour late for a dinner date with Laura that he was planning to propose to her at. So, y’know. Just fuckin’ awesome!

Thankfully he, by some bizarre twist of fate, is dating a literal  _ goddess _ who just smiles and kisses him when he finally shows up to the table, spewing apologies and still smelling faintly of rocket launcher smoke. He honestly doesn’t know why she puts up with him. He loves her for it. 

But wait. You thought it would get better from here, right? Guess again, sucker.

Dinner more than holds its own in the competition for the worst part of the day. Clint knocks his glass of red wine off the table with his elbow, a mark of how nervous he is. He catches it before it meets a grisly end on the plush carpet, but not before most of the contents splash all over their waiter’s white button down. This latest bit in a day’s worth of god-awful luck almost tips him over the edge, but as soon as the poor guy sweeps prissily off to the kitchen Laura starts laughing the way that makes Clint’s insides go all squishy, which somehow almost makes up for the fact that he’s _fucking Hawkeye and this does not happen to him_. 

(Seriously. Her laugh makes him feel like he’s gonna start puking rainbows, confetti, and poofy little pink hearts. That shit’s almost better than coffee.)

Later, when they’ve ditched the passive aggressive waiter (Can’t even blame ya, dude. They made sure to tip well.), and are finally alone in his apartment, Clint sees his chance. He takes a knee, reaches into his pocket, pulls out the ring... and promptly drops it when Lucky’s cold, wet nose bumps against the back of his neck, the pretty little gold band set with a purple stone slipping through his clammy fingers. And to top it all off, it rolls under the saggy bookshelf in the corner that’s been there since he moved into this dump. The muffled clink of it settling among the dust bunnies is deafening.

Clint is still staring dumbly at the bookshelf when Laura puts her hand on his cheek and turns his face towards hers. She’s dropped down to her knees to join him on the mustard coloured shag carpet, cheeks pink and lips pressed together in an effort not to laugh.

“Clint, I love you.”

The only logical thing to do at this point is drop his head face-first onto her shoulder and dissolve into slightly hysterical laughter. Laura shakes with helpless giggles and pats him gently on the back, aided in her efforts to calm him down by Lucky’s enthusiastic licking. 

When Clint has finally finished losing his mind, they flop onto the floor by mutual consensus, lying side by side so he can bitch about his day. Laura’s head rests on his shoulder, their fingers tangle together in a happy little knot, and they talk for hours. The ring can wait for now.  


She finally drops off around the time soft dawn light starts working it’s way between the greyish plastic slats of the blinds, exhaling little puffs of warm breath against his neck. 

Y’know, Clint thinks to himself as Laura snuggles closer, for such a shit day? It ended pretty damn well. She did say yes, after all.

He smiles. His eyes slip shut, and he sleeps. 


	2. “Who doesn’t?”

“I must confess, I’m surprised that the AllFather allowed you to visit me. Are you here to mourn the loss of your son? Or to celebrate his retrieval?” Loki finally opens his eyes, smugly expecting a satisfying measure of discomfiture from the person outside his cell. But annoyingly, Frigga is unruffled. He tries again. “If it’s the latter, I’m afraid there’s precious little to rejoice in, my queen,” he sneers.

She just looks at him, her eyes clear and steady. “I disagree. The child whom I thought dead is alive, and he has been brought home. That is much more than I ever dared hope for.”

“Ah. How quaint.” He rolls his eyes, lips twisting into a smirk. “But let me ask you this: are you proud of me, mother? I’m an enemy of Asgard, a traitor to the king. That can’t be what you wanted.”

She gives him a look. “Of course not. I am disturbed by your actions on Midgard, and even more so by the apparent lack of reason behind them. But I am still your mother, and you are still my son. I do love you.”

Loki closes his eyes again and smiles bitterly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Who doesn’t?”

Frigga says nothing in response, but he feels her gaze resting heavily upon him. One half of him resents her pity with a blistering, hateful intensity, while the other simply wants to crawl into her arms like he used to and let her try to fix him. To fill the scraped-out hollowness inside him and chase away the memories of Thanos’ dungeons. But he’s no longer a child with a scraped knee; he’s not even the man that child became, anymore, and his wounds can’t be miraculously healed with a kind word and a kiss. So he shuts away the weak part of himself (so what if the barrier he shoves it behind is no more than a flimsy silk screen? it’s enough, it has to be enough) and steels his resolve. It’s the only way. His weakness would be his undoing.

Frigga sighs, quiet and sad. “Very well. These are for you. Some are yours, and others are of my own selection.” She pauses again, and Loki senses the familiar ripple in reality caused by her sei ðr , vibrating in his mind like the softly plucked strings of a Vanir harp. “I know how much you hate to be bored.”

He doesn’t move until the swish of her skirts on the flagstones has faded completely away. Then, and only then, does he crack an eye open and turn his head on the arm of the couch to study her gift. 

A neat stack of books sits on the floor next to him. 

After a long moment spent regarding them with an inscrutable expression on his face, he plucks the top one off the stack. It used to be one of his favourites. He runs his fingers over the embossed title in an absent caress, standing and wandering to the front of his cell to ensure the guard isn’t on his way back down the row yet. But no. He is alone. 

He should burn them. Swiftly disabuse the AllMother of the notion that he cares in any small way. Better, surely, that he ends her foolish attempt to reclaim the person he was here and now. The weakling that tried so hard and for so long to be deemed worthy is gone, lost somewhere deep in the bowels of the Mad Titan’s torture chambers. Besides, he never succeeded. To the Asgardians he was only ever dishonourable. Loki the liar, Loki the cheat. Loki, the lesser of Odin’s spawn. 

However. 

He was also Loki, her son.

He flips the book open and starts to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki’s such a drama queen. Unfortunately, this is Dark World-era Loki, so he’s not very funny. Just depressed.
> 
> Still, he uses lots of fun words, which I appreciate. By the way, the publishing schedule for this is utterly down to how motivated I am, so it’s probably not going to be regular. (Lol.)


	3. “I’m sorry.”

_ Running. _ _ Cold, trees.  _

_ Snow.  _ _Night. _

_Gunshot._

_Gunshot, gunshotgunshotgunshot screaming oh god the screaming make it stop—_

Bucky jerks awake, breath catching in his throat. The nightmare swims in front of his eyes, and he twists his shaking hand (punch-squeeze- _ wring _ _)_ into the rumpled sheets. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe deeply and pressing his head down into the pillow to try to calm the pounding of his heart.

Eventually it’s just him again, lying awake in his too-big bed in the middle of the night. Lately, it’s started to get a little easier to bring himself out of his post-nightmare panic mode, thanks to a shitload of unwanted practice. But part of him can’t help feeling just a little disappointed.

Like an idiot, he’d let himself hope that since Shuri had worked her magic on his brain, the nightmares would stop. That he wouldn’t have to deal with bloody corpses and hard faced handlers haunting his sleep anymore.

That bright, shiny idea only lasted until he fell asleep the first night after they thawed him back out. Serves him right.

The nightmares have changed, though. There are more memories showing up, and he’s found himself scrambling for the notebook and pen on his bedside table at least once a night since he woke up in the recovery room a week ago. He’s been reading through his old notebooks, too, and as far as he can tell it’s new stuff that he’s remembering. So there’s that, at least. (By the way, he needs to thank... shit. Steve’s blonde gal. Uh, Sally? Sarah? Sh— oh. Sharon, ya dumbass. He needs to thank Sharon at some point. All the stuff in those notebooks, that’s  _him_ _._ The bad stuff, yeah, but the good stuff too. He’d almost cried when he found the black backpack sitting on the bed in his new room.)

On the bright side, he’s finally alone in his head for the first time in seventy odd years, and it’s  _incredible_ _._ No more oily, insidious whispering, no muted grinding of the protocols against every decision he makes. And, miracle of miracles, no more programming. They confirmed that earlier today, to Bucky’s flat out astonishment. Well, he amends as he glances over at the clock, yesterday. Still. Knowing that all he has to deal with now is his own fucked up shit, not HYDRA’s... it’s a huge fuckin’ weight off his chest.

Bucky sighs a little. He’s not going to get any more sleep tonight, he can tell. He’s wide awake now, and there’s not much he can do about it. So he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, brushing his hair out of his face and padding silently out of his room. Maybe he can find somethin’ to watch on the Food Network. 

He’s gotta hand it to T’Challa’s people, he thinks as he gently shuts his door and makes his way towards the living area. They’ve tried, and succeeded, in making a paranoid ex-assassin as comfortable as possible. His mattress is firm enough that he can bring himself to sleep on it, and his room is laid out so as to be easily defensible. (So is Steve’s, but Bucky isn’t sure he’s noticed. He’s been too busy impersonating a mother hen.) He feels guilty as all get-out if he thinks too much about the amount of money and effort put into his comfort, though, so he’s just trying not to dwell on it too much. 

As he approaches the combined kitchen-living room area, he’s distracted from his musings by soft humming, of all things. His pace slows, and his eyebrows draw together. Who the hell’s up at this hour? And  _singing? _

Feeling like a bit of a creep, he stops at the end of the hallway and leans back against the wall to stay out of sight, listening to the quiet melody. It’s pretty.

And... familiar? He finds himself singing along in his head, knowing each note before it’s hummed aloud. What the fuck? He knows that voice, that song. The curiosity builds, and when he finally can’t handle not knowing anymore, he gives in. He looks around the corner, and—

_Red. The Soldier’s muted admiration at sparring with someone almost as skilled as he is. A slow, cautious smile. Feeling alive like he hasn’t in a long time. «...Меня́ зову́т Джеймс.» Fingers wandering over his chest. Lips on his, soft and gentle. Hands in his hair. «Я люблю тебя, Яша.»_

He’s panicking a little, unable to extricate himself from the scattered impressions. These are the Soldier’s memories, and it doesn’t make any sense. HYDRA never—

Then the ghost of a playful giggle in his ear turns into a scream. He remembers electric shocks, a girl’s sobbing voice begging them to stop, hard fists pummelling him until he can hardly see past the swelling and bruising. And then the whiteout of the chair. 

Just as quickly as he got sucked into the flashback he’s catapulted back out again, leaning heavily against the wall and barely breathing. He’s numb, and as he rounds the corner he catches a glimpse of his face in a mirror, deathly pale and  haunted. 

_«Наталия.»_ His voice is a broken whisper, but she hears him. She stills, illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the bank of windows she sits in front of. Her hair curls against her cheek in a crimson wave.

“It’s been a long time since anyone called me that.” She turns her head to look at him over her shoulder, her face falling into shadow. Her eyes are a sharp glitter in the dark that pins him to the spot.

“Yeah?” He breathes, his voice rough. She smiles a little, flawlessly masking the time-dulled ache he can see in the tightness around her mouth and the careful blankness in her gaze. He can read her so well. Why didn’t he notice before?

“Don’t ask me how long ago it was. That would be telling,” she says lightly. What he should do is go back to bed. Go back to bed and forget he ever remembered this. 

He slowly walks closer and sits down on the floor opposite her, crossing his legs. “You called me ‘Yasha’.”

Her lips twitch and she shrugs, graceful self-deprecation almost covering the way she flinched at the nickname. “You remember that? Wow, embarrassing. Promise you won’t tell, and I won’t either.”

He manages a jerky nod, the words sticking in his throat. She looks back out the window then, and he sees the little tells that mean she’s steeling herself for something unpleasant. 

“What are you waiting for? Ask away.”

He considers her for a moment, surprised. Then he speaks softly. “I trained you, didn’t I?”

“I like to think I taught you a couple things, too. But yes. Espionage and combat techniques.”

“And we were... together.” She doesn’t answer right away.

“In secret.” She goes very still. “And yes, ‘together’ in every sense of the word.”

He’s suddenly struck by a truly awful thought, and he can barely choke the question out past the fear rearing it’s ugly head. “How old were you?”

Her head snaps around, expression filling with pity. “It was a long time ago, Barnes, don’t—”

“How old.” She closes her mouth and searches his face. She must see the stiff, wooden quality of his otherwise neutral expression, because she answers. 

“Old enough.”  


That doesn’t reassure him in the least. But she believes it, so he can’t tell if she’s lying or not.  Fuck. 

Swallowing back a wave of bitter self-loathing, he looks down at his hand where it rests on his thigh and plucks at a loose thread. He really shouldn’t keep going down this line of questioning, but now he has to. Damn it, Barnes. You shoulda known better. 

“You said you loved me.” She inhales, quiet and sharp, and he looks up again. 

“I did. And I meant it.” Now he’s the one who can’t breathe, and she looks back at him, meeting his eyes. “As much as I could at the time.”

He clenches his jaw against the sob trying to work it’s way out and breaks eye contact, unable to stand the implication of the honesty in her voice, in her face, in her eyes. He says the only thing he can think of. The only thing that makes sense. 

“I’m sorry.” After a moment, her hand appears in his field of view and lights atop his clenched fist, covering it with her palm.

It’s exactly the same size as he remembers. 

“Don’t be. You were good, and kind, and gentle. I don’t regret it. But neither of us are the people we used to be. The past should stay where it is.”

His hand falls open, and he closes it around hers for a split second before letting go. She withdraws it and wraps her arm back around her bent legs. He finds the strength to raise his eyes back to hers, and it turns out it’s not quite the ordeal he was expecting.

“I’m just trying to be somebody who deserves all the fucks everyone keeps giving about me.”

A ghost of a smile. “At  great risk of sounding like Steve, I’m telling you that you already are.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to that. But Natasha doesn’t force him to. After a moment more, she gets to her feet.

“Speaking of our star-spangled leader. He made cookies yesterday, didn't he?”

Bucky stands too. “Chocolate chip.” He hesitates. “I'm pretty sure they're shit.”

Natasha's smile in the dark is soft and unassuming. “Go find something good to watch, then. We'll need it to balance them out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian translations:  
> «...Меня́ зову́т Джеймс.» My name is James.  
> «Я люблю тебя, Яша.» I love you, Yasha.  
> «Наталия.» Natalia.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was fun to write. I'm a little sad we never got to see more of Bucky and Nat's relationship on screen, but c'est la vie, I guess. Fun fact, by the way: although the Russian cognate of "James" actually translates to "Yakob", if you're referring to someone whose name is James in English then apparently you just spell it phonetically using the Cyrillic alphabet. (Which is what my research led me to believe. If I'm wrong, please don't hesitate to call me out lol)


End file.
